


Flowers for Julian

by TouchingOldMagic



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Plotting Ziyal, Shippy, Wingman Ziyal, all in good fun, ds9 gets some culture, oblivious boy, takes place sometime in s05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TouchingOldMagic/pseuds/TouchingOldMagic
Summary: An art show brings a day of bright distraction during troubled times on DS9. And if Ziyal has anything to say about it, this is the perfect opportunity for a certain tailor to make his intentions clear to a certain Starfleet doctor.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Keiko O'Brien, Elim Garak & Tora Ziyal, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 17
Kudos: 46
Collections: To Boldly Gift: Fics 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ectogeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectogeo/gifts).



> Happy holidays to ectogeo! I hope you enjoy my attempt at a lighthearted romp aboard DS9. I tried to include as many of your prompt ideas as I could, which was a fun challenge.

It was fair to say that the sole Cardassian living on Deep Space Nine had a rather unique silhouette, and Julian Bashir told himself that this was the reason his eyes so readily tracked straight to the tailor in a crowd. And, to be honest, when he was walking alone as well. Or seated at the replimat. Or exiting his shop.

Whatever the reason, Julian tended to easily spot Garak around DS9. And on this particular day, as the doctor left the guest quarters of one of the station's temporary visitors who had called down to the Infirmary for assistance, feeling too lightheaded to make the trek to the Promenade, he caught a glimpse of the distinct Cardassian form just as it rounded the corner at the end of the hall.

That's odd, Julian thought to himself. Garak's quarters weren't in this section of the station. Where was he going?

Hesitating only briefly, Julian set out in the direction Garak had disappeared. He had never been one to ignore his own natural curiosity. It served him well in his profession as a doctor and in his friendship with one enigmatic exile. Besides, it had been a slow shift in the Infirmary and Julian was glad for an excuse to stretch his legs before going back.

He could have called out to his friend and jogged to catch up with him. Instead, he held his tongue. As he followed Garak, he automatically found himself concentrating on the delicate balance between the speed needed to keep Garak in sight and the caution to lag behind enough that he could duck back around a corner should Garak glance behind him. Julian placed his steps carefully on the carpeted hall to make the least amount of noise and held his medkit to ensure its contents wouldn't bang around. The thrill of the chase sang a lowkey tempo in his blood.

Perhaps real life wasn't the ideal place to exercise the spy tactics he developed in his holosuite programs. But, well, as long as he didn't get caught, he would be in the clear, wouldn't he?

Julian followed Garak at a distance as they left the residential ring of quarters and took a crossover bridge down to one of the cargo bay areas. He hung back around the corner and listened as Garak entered Cargo Bay 4, his mind turning over this new turn of events. What could the tailor want in the cargo bay? Oh, most likely just checking on some textile shipment he ordered and nothing more interesting than that. But what if it happened to be something a little more thrilling, some clandestine discussion with some traveler or freighter captain, something Julian could perhaps overhear. . . ?

After he heard the sound of the cargo bay doors closing behind Garak, the doctor slipped down the hall and stopped in front of them. He silently counted to two hundred, giving Garak time to get away from the doors and hopefully become invested enough in his objective that he wouldn't take notice of them opening. Then he took a breath to steady himself and keyed open the doors so he could slip inside.

"Is something wrong, my dear doctor?"

Barely making it through the doorway, Julian jumped and whirled, to find Garak standing in the shadow of a large light fixture placed beside the wall, close to the cargo bay entrance, where Julian had completely missed him. He felt a flush on his cheeks as he realized he had been caught.

"Ah," he said, scrambling for something to say. "Well, no, you see. . . ."

"Were you also coming to view the new hydroponics bay?" The Cardassian's blue eyes glowed with soft amusement, giving Julian a way out even as they proclaimed they knew the truth of the matter.

"New hydroponics bay?" He glanced around, noticing for the first time that most of the equipment around them seemed to be devoted to agriculture. "Ah, that. Well, no," he admitted. Julian wasn't the type to hide behind a lie, even one so graciously offered to him. He cleared his throat. "I was just making a house call." He tipped his head toward the medkit in his hand. "And when I saw you passing through, I thought I'd come say hello." The topic of the development of his spy skills, he left unsaid. Julian didn't hide behind lies, but he tried not to offer information that made him look foolish, either.

"How thoughtful!" the Cardassian replied. "Well then perhaps you'd like to come with me to investigate the arrival of some Markalian rootballs?" He gestured down the path between the equipment, which led deeper into the cargo bay.

Julian hid his lack of enthusiasm. Flowers and plants were not a particular interest of his, but neither was being rude to a friend. He agreed, and fell into step beside Garak as the tailor began recounting the troublesome steps he had had to go through to acquire said rootballs.

The two men passed through the containers of farming equipment to the rear of the cargo bay, which was currently housing a temporary hydroponics set-up for some prestigious visiting botanists. Half a dozen rows of waist-high stations of leafy browns and greens were growing under the glare of bright, solar lights suspended in the air above each one. Garak stopped at the end of the first row and investigated a trio of frothy blossoms, while Julian wondered faintly what manner of growing thing had attracted the tailor's attention (the only thing he could tell was that it was pink).

"Garak!" a female voice called to them. Both men looked up as Keiko O'Brien stepped from another row and approached them. She had a welcoming smile on her face and looked more at ease here in this cavernous cargo bay than she usually did anywhere else aboard the station.

"Ah, Professor O'Brien!" Julian watched with hidden amusement as Garak approached DS9's own personal botanist. The two of them launched into a complicated discussion of growth rates and ideal humidity levels that might as well have been spoken in Bajoran, for all the Julian understood what they were saying. While he admitted there were few talents that the jack-of-all-trades tailor could spontaneously manifest that would take the doctor by surprise anymore, he had been taken aback by his discovery of just how much Garak enjoyed the simple hobby of gardening. Perhaps, where plant care was concerned, he was "just plain, simple Garak" after all.

Julian felt a sudden tug on his pant leg. He looked down into the wide, dark eyes of Molly O'Brien, one small hand clutching his pants and the other holding a sheet of paper. "Look!" she said imperiously, holding the paper up to him.

"Molly, say please," Keiko interrupted her discussion with Garak to remind the girl. Julian smiled and took the paper to give it a proper inspection. It was a drawing of DS9, on a field of space done in enthusiastic strokes of a black crayon, with small stick figures circling all around it. Julian assumed, by the smiles on all the faces, that they were supposed to be living on the station and not floating in space as their placement depicted.

"Why, that's very good!" Julian told her, handing back the picture. Pleased with the declaration, Molly took the paper back to a small table off to the side, where she picked up another crayon and set to work on a new sheet of paper.

Keiko chuckled. "Sorry, she's taking the art show very seriously. She's still deciding what she wants to submit as her entry. Every time she makes a new picture, it becomes her current favorite."

"Art show?" Julian glanced at Garak to see if he had heard of this, but the Cardassian looked just as unaware.

"You hadn't heard?" Keiko smiled. "It was proposed by the Bajoran temple. It's going to be held on the Promenade in two weeks. Anyone currently on the station is welcome to enter. I, for one, think it's a wonderful idea. We could all use something to look forward to, these days."

At some point while Julian was distracted by the young artist, Garak had acquired what he had come to the cargo bay for. At least, Julian assumed the transparent case now in Garak's hands, housing several small clusters of some pale orange fibrous structures, were the Markalian rootballs previously mentioned. Julian thought that now would be the best time to take his leave, before the conversation returned to botany topics beyond even his prodigious comprehension.

"As refreshing as it is to stop and smell the . . . whatever those things are," Julian gestured to indicate the pink flowers nearby, "I should really be getting back to the Infirmary before they miss me."

Garak inclined his head in polite farewell. "As always, I appreciate your company, doctor. Thank you for humoring me," he added, revealing that he had been well aware of Julian's lack of interest the entire time.

Stuttering a halfhearted objection to such a statement, Julian retreated back to the cargo bay doors. In his haste to leave, he missed the wistful expression on the tailor's face, and the knowing smile on the botanist's.


	2. Chapter 2

"I think you should enter," Ziyal said to him at lunch the next day, when Garak brought up the topic of the Bajoran art show.

Garak blinked twice in surprise. He had broached the subject in order to inquire if Ziyal would be entering, and now found the tables had been neatly turned on him. "Me? My dear, I have a few talents, but none of them are artistic."

"Don't be silly!" Ziyal scoffed, using her fork to divide her dessert into small, neat sections. "What you do with cloth is just as artistic as what I do with a paintbrush." She lifted a bite to her mouth. Garak, sensing she wasn't done with her point, politely waited for her to swallow before continuing. (It was so refreshing to have a normal-paced conversation with someone who didn't rush through a meal.)

"There aren't many opportunities for me to study Cardassian design," the young woman pointed out. "And I'd love to see an example of something truly ornamental and less practical. Besides," and she paused for perhaps just a moment too long, stealing a glance in his direction, before saying, "sometimes I've found it clearer to express myself through my art rather than trying to find the right words to say. Haven't you ever had something you couldn't bring yourself to say in words?"

He looked at her with new consideration, then immediately deflected the question with a wide smile. "Congratulations, my dear! Your verbal articulation is improving! Soon I won't even be able to tell I'm being persuaded over to your point of view. You know, it's like a breath of fresh air to be able to have a conversation in the Cardassian way."

Ziyal raised an eye ridge. "I always thought the 'Cardassian way' was being direct and to the point." She kept her tone light, almost teasing, but he could tell underneath it was an undercurrent of uncertainty.

"Only when it would most effectively accomplish your goal," he replied. Though his own tone was just as light, he was being sincere. Garak had come to think of Ziyal as the young cousin he had never had. He had taken it upon himself to expose her to as much of the culture of her Cardassian heritage as he could. Though he did it for her sake, he thought that perhaps they both needed it.

"Well, I thank you for thinking of me," he added, "but I'm afraid I don't have anything to say that can be conveyed with stitches and hems."

"Hmm," Ziyal replied, noncommittal, and took another bite of pie.

\- - -

"So what's that look for?" Miles O'Brien asked. He glanced up from the Infirmary display panel he was taking apart. Julian was seated at his desk, staring off into space, as he had been for the past few minutes since Miles had arrived and gotten down to work. The engineer was used to a lot more chatter when he was making repairs on a slow day.

"Hmm?" Julian glanced over. "Pardon?"

"That." Miles pointed at Julian's head with his spanner. "You haven't said two words since I came in. You're a million light years away."

"Oh, sorry. It's Garak." The doctor sighed morosely.

"Oh." Miles' expression said he was sorry he asked, in the split second before he turned back to focus his attention on the panel innards.

But now the door had been breached and the floodgates were open. Julian launched into a rambling and plaintive explanation. "For the past two weeks, he's turned down our weekly meeting for lunch! Two weeks! Do you know how long it had been since he turned down a lunch? And now two in a row? What did I do? Did I offend him in the hydroponics bay? Was I too vehement the last time I defended Chaucer?"

Miles marshaled the patience of a saint who had a very dramatic best friend. "Did you ask him why?"

"He said it was a 'work-related emergency,'" Julian scoffed.

"You have work-related emergencies all the time," he pointed out.

"I am not a tailor, Miles," Julian shot back.

He rolled his eyes but let it drop. "I'm sure it's nothing you did. I've hardly ever seen the guy offended. Just wait and try him again next week," he advised. Then shrugged. "Or you could try following him again."

Julian groaned quietly. "I regret telling you I did that."

Miles smirked as he tightened a caliper.


	3. Chapter 3

The day of the art show, the Promenade was transformed. Shopkeepers still had their doors open, but stands and lights had been set up along the walls at regular intervals for the space station's inhabitants to stroll down the Promenade at a leisurely pace and observe the art pieces. Traditional paintings and sculptures predominated, with a few less traditional works peppered throughout. One of the most eye-catching was the three-meter tall plank of Bajoran softwood, standing on its end with the top almost reaching the Promenade's second level, a detailed scene of a busy alien marketplace carved into it by a proud Bolian. The artwork of the few children left on the station were clustered together at one end of the Promenade, while at another, a Bajoran man sat and played a stringed instrument softly.

Quark, ever the opportunist, had stationed a Ferengi waiter at the door of his bar, handing out flutes of champagne to passersby--with a thumbprint scanner to accept the charge, of course.

Ziyal did indeed have an entry on display: a pale watercolor of a little garden and a bench nestled in the crook of a playful stream. Garak was studying the piece, admiring her ability to find such peace and reflection in the troubled life she had so far led, when he spotted the artist herself a few meters away. He wove his way through the murmuring crowds to reach her and congratulate her on the admirable effort put into the painting.

She smiled when she saw him and spoke before he could. "So you took my advice after all," she said, a playful jab in her tone.

Garak spread his hands palms up, in a gesture of apology. "I suppose I found something to say after all."

Her amused expression eased to one of simple happiness. "I'm glad."

The two of them began a stroll down the length of the Promenade. Ziyal stopped in front of the next art installment. There was an air of excitement and satisfaction about her. The art show truly seemed to be her element. "How lovely," she murmured, mostly to herself.

"Yes, although the bones in this subject's hand seem to have been lost in some sort of tragic transporter accident."

"Garak!" Ziyal gave him a chiding look, but couldn't hide the amusement that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Thankfully no one stood within earshot.

They had only had time to view a few more pieces before someone calling to them caught their attention. Ziyal turned toward the sound of her name and spotted Julian Bashir coming through the crowd toward them. Her face lit up and she raised a hand in greeting. Hampered by the milling people, it took a few moments for Julian to reach them. Before he did, Ziyal glanced to the side and was surprised to see that she was standing alone. Garak had disappeared as effectively as a Bajoran pondskipper in a puddle of mud.

"Hello, doctor," she said, when Julian finally reached her. He was wearing his uniform. "Are you just getting off shift?"

"Hello, Ziyal. Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry to have missed the beginning." He glanced around. "Have you seen Garak here?"

Presumably he hadn't seen him on his approach, then. "Ah, yes, I'm fairly sure he's around," she said, taking the new situation in stride.

Julian's eyes scanned the crowd and he didn't do much to hide his disappointment, Ziyal was quick to note. She scrambled for a plan of action. "Would you like to look at some of the exhibits together? Maybe we'll run into him."

"Hmm? Oh. Oh yes, that would be lovely. Thank you for the invitation." Julian held out his arm to her. Amused by his gentlemanly professionalism, she put her arm in his and led him toward one of the exhibits she had already seen.

The early afternoon seemed to be the busiest time for the art show. The Promenade was cluttered with groups of people, but everyone seemed in a calm state, moving leisurely and enjoying themselves. Ziyal deftly steered Julian in a certain direction, chatting with him about the latest happenings on the station and answering his questions about her art and the pieces she had seen so far. Then, when they reached the area she wanted, she slowed her walk almost to a halt.

Julian matched her pace subconsciously and turned his head to follow her line of sight. Then he stopped altogether. His eyes widened in surprise, and if he had looked at Ziyal at that moment he would have seen a grin of triumph on her face that she quickly strove to hide.

A clothier's mannequin stood on the small stand that had been set up by the Bajoran temple volunteers for each art show entry. Warm yellow lighting from an overhead lamp illuminated the piece that was on display. It was a simple tunic of straight lines and bold lapels that fell to mid-thigh length, a flattering cut for a tall, thin person. The cloth was the color of raw sienna, and while it didn't have a pattern, the fabric was thick and velvety with a texture that created small whirls all over, resembling bouquets of flowers. It was lined with a dark gold silk that matched the stitching along the hem and collar.

The small digital placard on the wall next to the mannequin displayed Garak's name and the title of the piece: Flowers.

Julian Bashir was stunned. Even before his eyes sought out the placard, he knew who the artist must be. Ziyal stepped back and let him have the time he needed to take it in.

After a moment Julian seemed to come back to himself. "Garak did this?" he asked, amazed. "This is beautiful."

"I agree." Ziyal stepped closer, watching the doctor eagerly for his reactions. "I have so many questions for him. It seems like it would be a waste if no one ever wore it. I wonder if he made it for someone specific once the show is done?"

Julian's confused look told her that the thought hadn't occurred to him. He glanced at her, then back to the mannequin. "Well, he didn't make it with his own measurements. The shoulders are too narrow and it's too long."

Secretly Ziyal hid a smile, because Julian had just admitted to at least watching Garak enough to know his dimensions. "For someone else then, maybe," she said.

For a moment Julian appeared to think about it, but then he shook his head. "Perhaps it was nobody in particular," he said, turning away from the tunic with one last lingering look, before heading to the next art installment.

Ziyal silently said a curse word she had picked up in the mines.


	4. Chapter 4

After a long, successful day of enjoyment, the art show drew to a close, much to the relief of Constable Odo, who wanted his Promenade to return to its usual state. Art pieces were removed or covered to await their owner's return to claim them. Artists were enjoying a good dinner in public eateries or in their quarters. Quark's bar was alive with revelers. For one day, DS9 seemed more at ease than it had in a long time, and if it was only because the inhabitants knew it was a temporary refuge in a time of growing strife, perhaps that made it all the more appreciated.

Garak had brought his mannequin back to his shop, setting it up in the back room. He had received several compliments about the piece over the course of the day, even from those who usually didn't bother to speak to him, but he had avoided seeking out the one opinion that mattered the most. His fingers lightly traced the shoulders of the velvety fabric, smoothing out wrinkles that didn't exist, until he firmly ordered himself to stop woolgathering. 

The chime of the front door brought the tailor quickly back to the front of the shop. He was technically closed, but he would welcome the distraction after his failure today.

To his shock, his failure was standing on his doorstep, so to speak.

Julian gave the tailor a nervous grin that quickly fled his face. "Good evening, Garak, ah . . . could I come in?"

Garak would never be caught without a ready response, even in this situation. "Certainly, my dear." He stepped back and ushered the doctor into his shop, making sure the door was firmly shut behind him. He hid his physical reactions, the increase in his heart rate and the way his palms warmed with what would be nerves to any other Cardassian. Garak of course never got unnerved. His voice was steady when he asked, "To what do I owe such a visit?"

Julian's eyes roved the shop, touching lightly on everything but lingering on nothing. "Oh. I wanted to talk to you at the art show, but I didn't see you." He finally turned back to the tailor. "Now I suppose I see why you've been so busy lately. I had been worried it was something I had done. But truly, that was astounding, Garak. I hope you do more work like that in the future."

Though part of him longed to reassure the doctor he would never evade his company over some slight, real or imagined, Garak tread forward cautiously. He ignored all but the last statement when he answered, "Doctor, the amount of time and effort that piece took was positively Herculean, if I'm using that phrase correctly. It's not something I plan to reproduce."

Julian nodded. "Yes, I could tell. Ah, is it here? Could I see it?"

Silently Garak gestured him to the back room.

The two men stepped behind the curtains that divided the shop. Garak couldn't fail to notice the slight intake of breath as Julian once again beheld the piece of art. He swallowed against a dry throat before he spoke again. His words were not at all confident, but they were careful and concise. "It occurred to me after some thought that taking so much effort to create something might be a significant statement. Perhaps that statement was to tell someone that the artist thought they warranted that much time and effort. Perhaps," he faltered and fell silent, then plunged forward. "Perhaps it was meant for me."

Garak had the curious sensation of feeling weak in the knees. It was something he hadn't experienced in a very long time, since he was a much younger man. The doctor might be oblivious sometimes, but the expression on his face now said that he knew exactly what he was implying with his words. Still, Garak couldn't allow them to pass unchallenged. "And how did you come to that conclusion?" he asked, voice faint.

A slight smile teased the corners of the doctor's full lips. "Well, Ziyal isn't quite as subtle as she attempts to be," he admitted.

"Ah," Garak replied. He cleared his throat. "I'll have to have a word with her."

Julian stepped closer. "Don't," he requested. "If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have realized what you were trying to tell me."

Garak's blue eyes watched him intently. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then: "May I?" Julian said softly.

Garak went completely still. "May you what?"

Julian gestured. "Try it on."

Eyes alight, Garak slid the tunic off the mannequin and approached the doctor. Julian slowly unzipped his uniform jacket and let it drop to the floor, revealing the heather-colored undershirt beneath. He likewise pulled that off and let it fall, leaving him in only his black uniform slacks. Garak scarcely breathed. He lifted the tunic and slid it onto the human's tanned shoulders. If either noted the tremble in Garak's hand as he did so, neither spoke of it.

It fit perfectly, despite it having been some time since Garak took his measurements. Julian looked down at his chest, where Garak's pale, nimble fingers smoothed out wrinkles and tugged the fabric to hang straight on his shoulders, before buttoning it up to his neck. His fingertips seemed almost reverent as they resisted the urge to linger on bare skin. Both men both raised their eyes at the same moment, and suddenly fell into one another's gaze.

Softly, hesitantly, their lips touched. Then again, with more urgency, a fierce and lingering joy that spoke of too many missed opportunities tempered with reclaimed courage. When they parted, Julian knew his face was flushed, but he was happy.

"Thank you for the flowers," he whispered.


End file.
